


I Like You

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2876777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock misinterprets everything. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For my dear queensusan’s “Spones, Spock trying to woo Bones in an odd Vulcanish way, Leonard [grumpy and perplexed] has no idea what’s going on” prompt.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Spock’s quarters, never locked, open right up for Leonard’s storming feet, and the next second, he’s in Spock’s living room, catching Spock in the middle of fetching water. Spock stops with the glass halfway to his mouth, and Leonard launches right into: “So Chekov just came into my sickbay nearly in tears because _someone_ told him he might have Grazerite comapoxs. Care to guess who that someone turned out to be, pointy?”

For once, Spock doesn’t even bother to lift his eyebrows at the insult. He merely answers, “It was a logical conclusion based on his recent behaviour.” Leonard snorts and rolls his eyes enough for the both of them, crossing his arms over his chest. The doors have long since slid shut behind him, which is good, because he doesn’t need any witnesses to his possible murder of the first officer. The worst part is that Spock has a completely blank expression, as though oblivious to just how wrong he’s been.

Leonard hisses through grit teeth, “And where the hell do you get off making a diagnoses like that?” Vulcan Science Academy training or not, Spock is _not_ a doctor.

Spock finally turns to place his cup down on the nearest table, then clasps his hands crisply behind his back and says, “I apologize if my behaviour was inappropriate. I was merely attempting to take an interest in your career.”

“My career?” Leonard’s halfway between confused and weird-ed out. “Why?”

Spock replies simply, “Involving oneself in a potential mate’s career is a vital part of the Vulcan courting process.”

And _now_ Leonard is confused as hell; he recoils as if slapped, sure he heard wrong—do Vulcans make Freudian slips? Two in the same sentence? But Spock’s face is impassive and serious. If Leonard didn’t know better, he’d think this a big fat joke. Except Spock doesn’t make jokes, and this isn’t funny. 

He can only assume: “Did Jim put you up to this?”

Spock has the never to lift an eyebrow as though _Leonard_ is the one confused. “Am I mistaken? I had deduced that your extraordinary emotional lapses around me were due to the strenuous nature of human romantic feelings.”

“What?” Leonard’s voice has risen several decibels by the time he gets out, “No! I... I just find you frustrating as all hell! I insult you all the damn time and everything!”

“The captain has informed me that that is another human custom when one likes another. Affectionate pet names, private teasing, and deliberate provocation. Are these not signs of personal interest?”

Yes. No. Leonard shakes his head, more out of his own need to clear it than exasperation. Of course, it’s not like Leonard’s never _thought_ about it, but that’s completely natural. On the closed quarters of a starship, everyone considers everyone else romantically at least once. And of course he’s had wet dreams about Spock—who hasn’t?—but it was never something he considered as an option. For several long seconds, all he can do is stare at Spock’s stubbornly handsome face, waiting for the punch line. 

Finally, Spock breaks the awkward silence. “If you are not interested, I can cease my efforts immediately, and will not request the next courting step.”

Leonard means to say _good_ but instead asks numbly, “What’s the next courting step?”

“A ritual of mutual symbolic cleansing,” Spock answers matter-of-factly.

“Which means?”

“A shared shower.”

Now Leonard is really gaping. So hard that his eyes might fall out of his skull. Spock just stands there, still as a statue, with his taut stomach drawn tight and his long arms stretched behind him and his absurdly perfect hair nestled neatly against his forehead. His cheeks might be a little more green than usual, but otherwise, he’s just Spock, regular _Spock_ offering his body up to Leonard on a silver platter.

Leonard’s never been an angel. He still never thought he’d get a shot at a demon, which he always called Spock because of the pointed ears, not a latent desire. Or so he thought. 

Now, he can’t quite will himself to march away, even though he probably should. Instead, his blood just boils hotter and hotter, until all he can think about is that this is some other crazy space phenomena and he better get Spock naked now before they all wake up tomorrow with sanity restored to the universe. 

He clenches his fists around the bottom of his blue tunic, ready to rip it over his head, and marches for the washroom while he grumbles, “C’mon—I’ll finish yelling at you in the shower.”


End file.
